


Perilous

by yourlocalai



Series: The Otherworld Series [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Excessive Drinking, Getting Together, Lack of Communication, Lancelot is a good friend, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16288550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalai/pseuds/yourlocalai
Summary: After a poorly received kiss, Gwaine is left to contemplate his place in Camelot while trying to repair the most important relationship in his life.





	Perilous

Merlin’s brow furrowed when he concentrated, a tiny little crease right above his nose that begged to be smoothed by a gentle hand. Gwaine spared a moment to be thankful he wasn’t properly drunk, the temptation might have been too much for him otherwise. Merlin didn’t seem to notice his staring, too preoccupied smearing a poultice over Gwaine’s bruised and swollen cheek so carefully he hardly noticed the pain. They were so close he could feel Merlin’s breath gusting across his face, see the tiniest movements of his eyes. It felt intimate in the firelight and hush. One-sidedly intimate, the rational part of Gwaine’s mind reminded him, but intimate none the less.

Someone pounding on the door ruined it, Merlin pulling back and whipping his head around to look. Gwaine fought against swaying forward towards Merlin’s warmth, but only just.

Arthur strode in before either of them could call out in acknowledgment, throwing the door open so forcefully his tight grip on the latch was the only thing keeping it from slamming against the wall.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Merlin announced before Arthur had even finished stepping over the threshold, grabbing his things and slipping beside Arthur out into the corridor, leaving Gwaine to his fate. Gwaine huffed.

“Thanks mate,” he called after him, his only response a half pitying, half amused look over Arthur’s shoulder before he disappeared from view. Gwaine couldn’t really blame him though, not when Arthur was clearly furious. To a furious Arthur most things were Merlin’s fault.

Gwaine had been hoping to put this confrontation off at least until morning, when half his face wasn’t covered in paste and the edges of the world were a bit clearer, but looking back it had been foolish to think Arthur might go to bed at a reasonable hour and leave Gwaine to his suffering.

“Something I can do for you Princess?” he asked instead, taking Arthur’s brief distraction at Merlin’s exit to get the first word in. Petty, maybe, but if he let Arthur lecture at him they’d be here all night.

Arthur’s gaze was sharp when it snapped back towards him, leaving him feeling rather petulantly like he’d been cheated. Arthur’s eyes weren’t half as pleasing to look at as Merlin’s, for all they were the same color.

“Yes actually,” Arthur began, his voice very carefully level. It was the tone of voice Gwaine heard in council when Arthur couldn’t give away his contempt for a boorish nobleman. Not something one generally wanted turned on themselves, but Arthur’s disapproval had never cowed him before. “You can tell me why a knight of Camelot was caught in a common tavern brawl.”

Apparently he was drunker than he’d thought, because the words “Caught in? I _won_ a tavern brawl,” slipped out of his mouth even as he knew that was a terrible response. He could _see_ the tension building in Arthur’s shoulders.

“I’m serious Gwaine. I cannot have a knight picking drunken fights in the citadel. You’re on thin enough ice as it is.” With the council, with the nobles, with the other knights, it was hardly a secret what they all thought of the lowest of Arthur’s chosen knights. That didn’t mean he’d done anything wrong.

“Oh come off it Arthur, it was four on one. No one in their right mind would call that a fair fight.” He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d won honestly. He’d been quickly outnumbered, fists raining down on him from all sides even as he gave as good as he got, until suddenly two of them were on the ground and the third was dragging the fourth away. He’d been left bruised but standing in the end, until they’d all been thrown out a few minutes later by a furious barkeep. “We’ll frame it so all anyone is talking about is how good a trainer you are, they’ll love that.”

Arthur deflated like a windless sail, and his sigh was audible even across the room.

“Just…don’t do it again,” he said, waving his hand as if he could wipe the entire conversation away before he turned and left.

Gwaine fell back into his pillows and let his heavy eyes fall shut, happy to let the bed support his aching ribs. His cheek was starting to throb and the poultice had started to dry, tugging at his skin uncomfortably. Breathing slowly and steadily he let the day’s tension bleed out of him. He felt a little bad for Arthur. He’d have to defend Gwaine’s knighthood now without making it seem like he approved of his actions. A tight spot to be in, and some of the consequences would spill over to Arthur’s other chosen knights. Even knowing that, Gwaine didn’t think he could have done anything differently. He could still feel a stranger, far deeper in his cups than Gwaine had been, slinging an arm over his shoulder as if they were old friends. The man had knocked him about good-naturedly and congratulated him on his good fortune, turning a leer on Merlin before Gwaine could ask what he was on about. _Bet that one’s a good cocksucker, eh?_ Arthur didn’t need to know who threw the first punch or why.

In the privacy of his chambers though, Gwaine could admit he was in more trouble than Arthur knew.

—

“Sir Gwaine.”

The gentle but insistent voice flowed over him like water, carrying him out of a peaceful sleep and into the gloom of his chambers in early morning. He’d rolled over some time in his sleep and the now dry poultice had crusted to the pillow, pinching his skin where it had wrinkled. Blinking his one free eye open he peered around the room as best he could without moving his neck.

A squire was standing a respectful distance from his bed, hands clasped behind his back. He was both tall and broad for his age, with dark hair and a wide jaw. Baudwin’s squire, though Gwaine didn’t know the boy’s name.

“Hmm,” he grunted in greeting, letting his eye fall closed again. The squire didn’t sound like he minded.

“Prince Arthur wished to ensure you would not be late for training this morning.”

 _Arthur you bastard_. Gwaine buried his face deeper in the pillow and said, “Fine, tell Her Royal Highness I’ll be there.”

He could hear the squire’s shoes scuffing against the stone as he shifted in place, but the boy said nothing and made no move to leave. Gwaine sighed. “You’re not going to leave until I’m up, are you?”

“I was sent to fetch you, My Lord.”

Gwaine dragged himself up onto his forearms with a groan, realizing after a few moments that he’d dragged the pillow up with him. Grimacing, he slowly peeled it off his face while pretending not to see the squire’s lips twitching. He rubbed his cheek gently, the skin feeling raw and itchy as the air hit it, but his hand came away clean of blood. At least Merlin wouldn’t be cross with him for ruining all his hard work.

Flipping over, he swung his legs over the mattress and pushed himself upright, proud of himself for staying steady on his feet. He’d felt worse after a long night at the tavern, but his head was more tender than he’d like to admit.

“Well, let’s not keep him waiting then, yeah?”

—

“Again!”

He was being punished. Long after most of the knights had gone on to partner sparring, Gwaine was stuck drilling footwork sequences for the seventh time. Arthur was a punishing task master when he wanted to be, catching him for the slightest hitch in breath or the smallest twist of an ankle even as he appeared to be giving the duels his full attention. His head was throbbing in time with his footsteps on the hard packed dirt, and the late September sun still managed to be scorching. More than any physical discomfort, it was the pitying stares of the others that were truly wearing on him, seeing him singled out like this.

Arthur was definitely punishing him.

A halt was finally called a few minutes later, after Sir Safir managed to disarm Sir Degore, and Gwaine let his sword fall gratefully.

“Get some water, all of you, and head to the armory. We’ll be working with maces for the rest of today.”

 _Finally_. Gwaine sheathed his sword and made to join the others.

“Oh, not you Sir Gwaine,” Arthur called out, stopping Gwaine in his tracks. He whirled around in outrage, only to see that the bastard was _smirking_ at him. “Physicians orders. You’ll be on the climbing walls today.”

Gwaine was going to kill him.

—

“When I said you shouldn’t be sparring today this isn’t what I had in mind.” Merlin’s indignation on his behalf was touching, especially after a day filled with teasing mockery from everyone else. He already had plans to steal Percival’s boots and Elyan’s favorite dagger, though he hadn’t decided yet whether he wanted to hide them in the stables or on the battlements. Both had potential.

“So I have you to thank for that, do I?” Gwaine asked with mock affront. “I’m the laughing stock of the knights now. ‘Poor Sir Gwaine can’t hold his own after a little brawling.’” Merlin turned a glare on him, though Gwaine could see him fighting back a smile.

“You were this close to a concussion, you’re lucky it wasn’t longer.”

“How was I to know one of them was wearing a ring?”

“Just a thought,” Merlin began in that _you’re an idiot_ tone he generally reserved for Arthur, “but not hitting him in the face might have helped.” Gwaine laughed.

Laughing stock of the knights he might have been, but none of them had the physicians apprentice personally rubbing arnica salve into their sore arms, so Gwaine felt he came out on top. Merlin’s hands were firm but gentle, tracing a path over his bicep and down to the crook of his elbow, massaging as he went. It felt divine, and Gwaine’s eyes drooped as he watched Merlin watch his work.

“There, that should keep the cramps away,” Merlin said, looking up with a smile. Merlin had moved in close where he was straddling the bench, his knee pressed tight against Gwaine’s thigh, and a blush spread across his cheeks as he seemed to realize just how close they were. He was so pale his blushes always had that blotchy look, bright spots of color appearing high on his cheekbones and down around his jaw. Gwaine thought them charming.

Merlin hadn’t taken his hand off Gwaine’s arm. His thumb was still stroking above his elbow, leaving a little trail of warmth behind, and his eyes flickered down to Gwaine’s lips.

Gwaine had never quite been able to tell before if his interest in Merlin was requited. He was friendly by nature, generous with affectionate touches for everyone in his good graces, and Gwaine knew through the rumor mills that half the scullery maids would have magicked their stays away if Merlin asked. But he never asked, not of anybody so far as Gwaine knew. He thought back to their days in the Perilous Lands, to Merlin’s polite rebuffs to all of Gwaine’s flirtations. He’d taken it as a refusal, or at least disinterest, but perhaps Merlin simply hadn’t known what he was offering.

It was the easiest thing in the world now to lean forward and touch his lips to Merlin’s, soft and chaste. A small noise of surprise came from Merlin, but his grip tightened on Gwaine’s arm and he didn’t draw away. He’d been prepared to leave it at that, Merlin’s friendship far too important to let him think a quick tumble was all he was aiming for, but it was Merlin who deepened the kiss, leaning forward and parting his lips just slightly. Eager, but unpracticed, and Gwaine couldn’t help smiling. He wasn’t generally the teaching type, but for Merlin he’d make an exception.

Merlin picked up the rhythm he set easily enough. He could hear Merlin’s little gasping breaths every time they drew apart, could feel his shivers every time Gwaine’s tongue brushed his lips. Gwaine was feeling bold enough to snake an arm around his waist when Merlin broke the kiss, bringing his hands to Gwaine’s chest as he pushed himself away. Gwaine’s body fell forward a ways chasing after Merlin’s, his eyes blinking open in surprise. He felt chilled without Merlin’s warmth in his arms, and that chill coalesced into something heavy in his heart when Merlin whispered, “I’m sorry.” Gwaine sat back.

“Merlin, wha—”

“I can’t,” he said, stronger now, though he wouldn’t meet Gwaine’s eyes. He stood up quickly from the bench and Gwaine winced when he banged his knee on the underside of the table, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He grabbed the jar of salve and pushed its lid back into place before handing it out to Gwaine.

“There’s plenty left if you need any more tonight, um,” he said, his free hand harshly twisting the hem of his shirt, his gaze still firmly set a ways past Gwaine’s feet.

Gwaine knew he was a man of few virtues, but never let it be said he could not handle a rejection with grace.

“Right!” he said, trying to put a bit of cheer in his voice as he took the jar. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Thanks mate.”

He stood and made ready to leave. Merlin looked miserable, and he was tempted to ask where exactly things had gone wrong, to try and salvage some of the happiness that had fled the room, but dismissal was clear in every line of Merlin’s body. Gwaine had never been one to overstay his welcome.

He left, and pretended not to hear one last whispered _I’m sorry_ behind him.

—

He went to the tavern, the castle walls feeling more like a cage than they had in months. He didn’t remember much after that.

—

Gwaine learned long ago that the world kept moving no matter how far behind he felt he’d fallen. His bruises healed and he joined the regular training sessions again. Patrols were uneventful, council was boring, meals were served on time, and if he spent more time alone in the tavern than he had before that was no one’s business but his own.

Merlin was avoiding him, which was probably for the best. He took his meals with Gaius more often than not these days, and wherever he’d taken to polishing Arthur’s armor it wasn’t the armory. The others had noted Merlin’s absence. Arthur especially made many a comment on his manservant’s melancholy, but even he looked worried the longer this went on. So far no one had asked if Gwaine’s excessive drinking and Merlin’s disappearing act had anything to do with each other, and a creeping bitterness made him wonder if his own suffering was so much less remarkable than Merlin’s, but that wasn’t fair and he knew it. There was a reason he hadn’t packed his bags and made for the border, and it wasn’t just because he’d be hunted down as a deserter if he did. He’d made friends in Camelot almost in spite of himself, friends he would miss and who he had to believe would miss him. But none of them could replace Merlin, any more than they could draw him out of his downward spiral.

Mid October saw him in Arthur’s chambers, summoned before he could make his way to the Rising Sun. Merlin’s presence was obvious throughout the room, a fire burning merrily in its grate, the bed covers turned down and a heated stone under the pillows, a sleeping shirt draped over the changing screen, but the man himself was absent. Gwaine smothered his disappointment.

Arthur was seated at his table, a half eaten supper before him. He bade Gwaine to enter.

“Something I can do for you Sire?” Gwaine asked, only slightly uncomfortable at using Arthur’s actual title. He was too tired to bandy words tonight.

Arthur braced his elbows on the table and clasped his hands before his face, looking especially serious. It set Gwaine on edge.

“I’m sending you on patrol,” he said. _What, that’s it?_

“All right,” Gwaine said slowly, “Any reason this couldn’t wait until council?”

“Because you’ll be leaving with the tax collectors to Powys at dawn as protection.”

“Expecting trouble then?” Gwaine asked. Fifteen knights had already been assigned for the two week journey. The odds of bandits attacking such a well armored caravan were slim to none. Arthur shrugged.

“We’ve had a plentiful harvest, it may prove too tempting a target.”

“You know, I might have believed that if we were going anywhere else, but Powys?” Gwaine asked. “What’s this really about Arthur?”

Arthur was silent for a time, scrutinizing him. Gwaine barely resisted fidgeting. Finally Arthur sighed and gestured for Gwaine to sit.

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been irritable and withdrawn for weeks, and its affecting your performance and the morale of the other knights.” Arthur held up a hand to stop Gwaine’s protests. “Before you ask, no, I’m not going to make you tell me what it is.” Arthur rubbed his brow, and Gwaine was left feeling like a child being lectured by a weary parent. “Take the patrol, clear your head, sort out whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

That was apparently all he had to say, so Gwaine nodded and made to leave. It wasn’t as if he could argue. He was nearly to the door when Arthur called out behind him, “Oh and Gwaine, Lancelot will be going with you.”

“What, will a wet nurse be going too?” Gwaine snapped, turning back to face him. Arthur looked unimpressed.

“Get packed Sir Gwaine, provisions will be ready for you by morning.”

“Right, of course, _Sire_.”

He never did make it to the tavern that night. That was probably deliberate.

—

If Lancelot hadn’t been there to wake him he doubted he’d have made it anywhere. His head ached fiercely, and he was sweating enough to feel like he was swimming in it underneath his mail shirt. The rocking of the horse was doing very unpleasant things to his stomach, and based on the concerned glances Lancelot kept sending his way he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it. He’d been here a few times before, usually when he needed to leave a city quickly and stay gone a while, but it had never been this bad before. He’d seen men die of too much drink, knew exactly what his vices might cost him one day if he wasn’t careful, and wondered that it might have crept up on him without him even noticing. His knighthood had been as much a promise to himself as to Camelot, a promise that now people depended on him he would never give them reason to doubt. The fact that he was out here at all told him all he needed to know about how well he’d succeeded.

The only consolation was that they were moving slowly, empty wagons and servants trailing them on foot keeping them at walking pace. If they were attacked right now he’d be more help lying in the road than trying to fight, maybe then a bandit would trip over his body, but as he’d expected the road to Powys was calm. Powys itself was a bit of a wasteland. It had always been sparsely populated, but the Knights of Medhir charging through on their way to Camelot a few years back left much of it abandoned. They encountered no one on the road.

The weather stayed fair, and by the third day Gwaine was starting to feel more charitable towards the trip. It _was_ nice to be out of the castle, to feel the wind and the crisp air as the seasons turned. But dampening his enjoyment was a growing anxiety about the welcome he’d receive when he returned. _Sort it out_ Arthur had said. How was he supposed to do that when he was miles from the problem?

He was still mulling that over as they set up camp the fourth night when Lancelot came to find him, tossing a filled waterskin his way in greeting. The water was cold, fresh from a stream, and felt wonderful on his parched throat.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Trust Arthur not to send me with a wineskin huh?”

“You don’t think that was the point?” Lancelot asked softly, poorly trying for casual. Gwaine sighed.

“Are we doing this now?”

Lancelot didn’t answer, instead grabbing one end of the canvas and helping to pitch their shared tent. They worked in silence for a time, and Gwaine might have been cautiously optimistic that he’d make it through the night without being interrogated if it weren’t for the tension in the air.

“You know, Merlin wouldn’t tell me what was wrong either,” Lancelot said eventually, and Gwaine stiffened. So someone had put two and two together. “I was hoping you would.”

Lancelot looked at him expectantly, but Gwaine couldn’t bring himself to speak. It wasn’t that Lancelot had never heard tale of his less successful dalliances, he’d heard much of them from Gwaine himself, but Merlin was a friend to him as well. They’d been close long before Gwaine had known either of them, and he was struck suddenly with the fear that he’d drive away another person that mattered to him. Besides, how could he explain it to Lancelot when he didn’t truly understand what had happened himself?

“Please, Lancelot,” he said eventually, if only to keep him from pressing. “Just, not now, alright?”

Lancelot looked disappointed, but nodded and let it go. They finished pitching the tent in silence, storing their packs and setting up their bedrolls.

Lancelot fell asleep not long after, his breathing deepening and evening out, but Gwaine couldn’t follow suit. Something about knowing Lancelot had been trying to comfort Merlin while Gwaine drank his evenings away gnawed at him. He should have been the one to step up, to at least make sure Merlin knew he had his loyalty even if he no longer wanted his friendship.

In spite of all the effort he’d put into forgetting over the weeks his mind drifted back to the kiss, to Merlin’s tight grip on his arms, to how soft his lips had felt as he’d leaned into the kiss. Whatever else had been going through his mind Merlin had wanted that kiss, at least in the beginning. Of that Gwaine was sure. Merlin hadn’t said _I don’t want this_ , he’d said _I can’t_. Why? The most obvious explanation was that he was already attached. It would explain why he’d never showed any interest in another, and though it hurt a bit to think he didn’t know something so important in Merlin’s life, he could understand wanting to keep some things private. Perhaps it was Gwaine himself who was the problem. He’d never been subtle about taking pleasure with another for only a night, and he didn’t see Merlin as the type for casual sex. Should he have made his intentions clear from the beginning, or would Merlin have been as intimidated by the idea of courtship as Gwaine was? Or perhaps he was one of those men who had no interest at all in the pleasures of the flesh, and Gwaine had simply read everything wrong. In the end he supposed it didn’t matter. Merlin’s reasons were his own, it wasn’t Gwaine’s place to question them.

He fell asleep eventually, feeling no closer to an answer at all.

—

They arrived at the first village the next day, where Gwaine learned that tax collection was incredibly boring. The people of Powys were sheep herders, and they paid their taxes mostly in bags of wool set aside since spring. The only person who really had anything to do was the scribe, meticulously recording the goods provided and their relative amounts while the servants loaded the wagons. Seventeen knights was excessive for a journey like this, and the only thing Gwaine could do to fill the time was stew in his own problems.

Should he let Merlin come to him in his own time, or confront him as soon as he returned? If Merlin was avoiding him he probably wouldn’t be happy with Gwaine for forcing the issue, but Gwaine also felt he’d go mad if he let this drag on. The longer he was away the greater his need to at least try and set things right grew until it was all consuming, his days filled with imagining scenarios for his return.

Their caravan had visited eleven villages in total by the time they turned back towards Camelot, and Gwaine couldn’t remember a single thing about any one of them. The apologies he composed never seemed sufficient, and his determination was overshadowed by the fear that Merlin would rather he’d stayed gone. So much of the home he’d built in Camelot was tied up in Merlin, what would he be if he lost that? It was that thought that finally drove him to seek out Lancelot in desperation, only a day out from the city. He waited until they’d settled into their tent for the night so he could at least pretend they had some privacy.

“When you spoke to Merlin,” he began, ignoring the way Lancelot immediately perked up, “how did he seem?”

“So this is to do with Merlin.”

Gwaine sighed. “I messed up, Lance. I want to make it right, but I don’t know how without making things worse.”

“Funny,” Lancelot said, his brows drawn together slightly in confusion. “Merlin said the same thing.”

“What?”

“He was upset, convinced he’d made a mistake he didn’t know how to fix.”

“What?” Gwaine repeated, because that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Why would he—, but _I_ kissed _him_. How is that his mistake?”

Lancelot’s eyes went comically wide, and Gwaine realized with a flush of embarrassment he’d never actually told Lancelot what he’d done.

“That…isn’t what I thought you were going to say. What, exactly, happened?”

As if Gwaine knew that any better than he had an hour ago. “I don’t know. I thought everything was fine until he pushed me away, hasn’t spoken to me since.” Gwaine’s eyes narrowed as the rest of Lancelot’s sentence caught up with him. “What did you think I was going to say?”

Gwaine couldn’t even begin to read the expression on Lancelot’s face at that question.

“I — it’s not important, I was wrong.”

“Are you sure, because I don’t know what went wrong. If he said anything at all…”

“It isn’t my place to say,” Lancelot said firmly.

“Say what?!” Gwaine exploded, feeling like an answer was being dangled before him only to be snatched away. “Lancelot please, I just want to make this right.” How much he meant that hit him fully then. It had taken losing them for Gwaine to truly realize that Merlin’s quiet faith and gentle affection were enough. He’d never had to repair a relationship he’d damaged before, had never stuck around anyone long enough to try, and the idea that he might fail now terrified him. Some of that desperation must have shown on his face because Lancelot’s expression softened.

“Alright,” he said softly, “but I want to be clear that Merlin said nothing of this to me himself. I won’t presume to know exactly what he was thinking, but I don’t believe he refused you because he was…uninterested.” That wasn’t the answer Gwaine was looking for at all.

“It doesn’t matter why he did it, I’m not out to change his mind. I just want him to know he can still trust me,” Gwaine said, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to make himself understood, but Lancelot was shaking his head.

“That isn’t what I meant.” He paused for a moment, weighing his words, before continuing, “Merlin is different around you, happier. I think he cares for you as much as you care for him, but he holds himself back. He has good reason to, but…just talk to him. Tell him what you told me and I think he’ll come around. I know he trusts you, honestly I don’t think you’d be a knight right now if he didn’t.”

There was a lot to take in there, not least of all the fact that Lancelot apparently knew Merlin far better than Gwaine ever had, but Gwaine chose to focus on the most important part.

“And if he doesn’t want to talk?”

“He will,” Lancelot said, sounding so sure Gwaine couldn’t help but believe him. “But he needs you to start the conversation.”

—

Samhain was nearly upon them when they returned, and it looked like preparations for the feast were well under way. The courtyard was a frenzy of activity, so much so that leading seventeen horses and eight loaded wagons through the crowd was a challenge. Gwaine dismounted under the portcullis and grabbed his horse’s reins, skirting the walls as he made his way towards the stables.

 _He needs you to start the conversation_ , Lancelot had said. There was no reason to delay. He didn’t need to be there when the scribe made his report to Arthur, his entire day was free.

He passed his horse off to a stableboy, took a deep breath, and turned towards the castle. He’d come no closer to knowing what he should say since speaking to Lancelot, but he’d always been good with words when it mattered. He’d decided to trust that wouldn’t abandon him now.

As it turned out he didn’t have a choice. Any time he might have had left vanished when he saw Merlin sitting on the stairs, peering into the crowd. Gwaine’s step faltered, caught between charging ahead and the cowardly urge to run away when Merlin spotted him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t Merlin smiling at him.

Merlin was on his feet and moving towards him the next moment. It was no time at all before he was in front of him, and then suddenly in his arms.

Gwaine didn’t know when Merlin’s scent had become familiar to him, only that an overwhelming sense of relief and fondness welled up inside him with his face pressed against Merlin’s shoulder. He smelled like dust and armor polish and all the strange plants Gaius kept in his chambers, like all the things Gwaine had started associating with home.

“You’re back!”

“Of course, didn’t think I’d run away, did you?” He’d meant to keep the question casual, but some of the fears from earlier crept into his voice.

“No!” Merlin cried, pulling back to look Gwaine in the face. “No, of course not, I just…” Merlin seemed to realize they were surrounded by people who were starting to stare, because he grabbed Gwaine’s hand and pulled him towards the castle saying, “Come with me.” Apparently Lancelot didn’t know everything, Merlin seemed eager enough to talk on his own.

The castle wasn’t much better than the courtyard, servants scurrying about with linens, decorations, and cleaning rags, but Merlin brought him into a small alcove a few floors up. They weren’t completely secluded, but the people passing by seemed busy enough to not pay them any mind.

“I don’t have long but, Gwaine I am so sorry, I—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Gwaine interrupted. He couldn’t figure out how Merlin had twisted things around so he was at fault, but Gwaine wouldn’t have it. He’d spent the last two weeks determined to apologize, he wouldn’t let Merlin leave this conversation thinking he’d done anything wrong.

“I should have asked, shouldn’t have assumed you wanted the same things I did—”

“But I did want it,” Merlin insisted. “I’m sorry because I was never angry at you, and I let you think I was for weeks.”

Lancelot had told Gwaine as much, but hearing it from Merlin still managed to surprise him. A tentative sort of hope started to rise in him, but there was still too much he didn’t understand to indulge in it.

“You know I would never ask for more than you wanted to give.”

“Of course I know that,” Merlin said, bringing his hand up to rest on Gwaine’s shoulder, playing with the ends of his hair. “It’s not you that’s the problem, it’s me.”

“Merlin, the only thing you could say that would make me leave is if you asked me to go,” Gwaine said, feeling more serious than he could ever remember feeling before. Again he thought back to the Perilous Lands, to the promise behind his words when he’d said he was there to help a friend. This didn’t feel so different. “Whatever you think the problem is we can work it out.”

Merlin’s smile was all wrong, sadness and bitterness twisting his face into something ugly.

“You don’t know what you’re promising,” he said, his head falling to rest in the crook of Gwaine’s neck.

“That’s never stopped me before, has it?” he joked, hoping to bring some lightness back into the conversation. It worked, Merlin huffing a little laugh as he drew his head back to look Gwaine in the eye.

“I do trust you,” he said softly, sounding more like he was reminding himself than Gwaine. His voice trembled, and his hand felt cold and clammy where is brushed against Gwaine’s neck. That wasn’t just from nerves, there was fear there.

“Merlin, is everything all right? Has someone…” Outrage crept into his voice at the thought Merlin was in some sort of trouble he was reluctant to speak of, but he shook his head before Gwaine had even finished the question.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that, I just, I’ve never talked about this before. I didn’t think I’d be so bad at it,” he said with a self deprecating smile that did nothing to reassure.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“But I want to, and if we’re going to do this you deserve to know.” He wrapped his arms fully around Gwaine’s neck, bringing their chests together. Standing so close Gwaine had to tilt his head back a bit to keep eye contact, wondering at the boldness he now saw in Merlin’s face even as it couldn’t quite mask the fear.

“This is what you want, then? Because I’m pretty sure I came here to apologize,” he said, his own arms reaching around Merlin's waist.

“Yes, it’s what I want,” Merlin said, a real smile on his face, one that was so wide his eyes scrunched up and the corners of his mouth bleached white. Gwaine had missed that smile fiercely the last few weeks.

A clatter from the corridor popped the bubble they’d built around themselves, drawing them abruptly back into the real world. Merlin’s head fell forward again with a groan.

“I didn’t plan this well. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have a lot of time, they’re waiting for me to help beat the tapestries.”

Gwaine’s body railed against moving away from Merlin’s, but he forced himself to take a step back when it became apparent Merlin wasn’t going to.

“Well, don’t want to leave them waiting, yeah?”

Merlin sighed in disappointment before fixing Gwaine with an imploring stare. “After the feast, come find me,” he said. “I won’t be as busy and we can sit down and talk about this, properly, okay? I promise.” Gwaine was starting to think it was his destiny in life to come running whenever Merlin called.

“All right, I will.”

The smile Merlin turned on him was blinding, and he surprised Gwaine with a kiss. It was quick, a gesture borne more of happiness than affection or intimacy, but he melted into it all the same.

“Okay, good,” he said, still smiling as he broke the kiss. He backed up a few steps towards the corridor, their clasped hands stretching out between them. “I’ll see you soon?”

“I’ll find you.”

Merlin nodded before finally turning away and disappearing among the other servants. Gwaine let out a breath and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes to block everything out for a moment. He had more questions than he’d started with, and he wasn’t too keen on waiting even longer for the answers. _After the feast_. That was only two days away.

He’d waited years for this, what were a few days more?

**Author's Note:**

> This was set just before the Series 4 premiere, so we all know how that feast ended lmao. 
> 
> Lancelot 100% thought it was a magic reveal gone wrong, he was also 100% ready to throw hands with Gwaine if he thought Merlin was in danger. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
